


Sunset

by Rhaenyra



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Birthday, Childhood, Community: HPFT, District 12, Dystopia, F/M, Family, Fatherhood, Fluff, Marriage, Parent-Child Relationship, Young Peeta Mellark, post-partum depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhaenyra/pseuds/Rhaenyra
Summary: Peeta Mellark is turning ten.  His father has a plan for the boy whose mother never seemed to want him.A Hunger Games fic.





	Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I was walking my dog yesterday afternoon when this idea popped into my head and I just had to get it down. This is a bit odd, given that I don't usually write Hunger Games fics, but I'll take it.
> 
> The Hunger Games is property of Suzanne Collins. Katniss's mother being named Ruth is from the queen of HG fanfiction, Fernwithy. If you have not read her stories I cannot recommend them enough. Just prepare to spend a lot of time devouring them all, because they are novels that go from Haymitch's Games through to Mockingjay.

Sunset

 

I was sixteen the first time I fell in love. I had started dating the apothecary owners' daughter at fifteen and realized I had fallen in love with her six months later. Somehow, she had fallen in love with me too. I thought that I was the luckiest guy in the world and it was too good to last.

Unfortunately, I was right.

By eighteen we had broken up. By nineteen, she word reached me that she was dating a tall coal miner by the name of Everdeen. By twenty, she was his wife.

Ruthie herself told me about her toasting. She came into my father's bakery on an unseasonably warm spring day to buy a loaf of sourdough bread. It had always been her favourite. Apparently, her parents did not approve of her impending nuptials, but she had managed to pocket away enough money over the years to get herself started in her new life. When you were one of the best healers in town, I suppose people tended to turn to you with what little they had to offer.

It was impossible to deny her happiness when she left, rushing off to get ready. And even though I had thought it would hurt to see her go, I was happy for her. The door of possibilities for our future was shutting, but she was happy and I had hope I would one day feel the same.

I saw Ruthie less after she moved to the Seam, but she didn't seem to change. Even the coal dust that permeated everything in that part of the district didn't seem to be imbedded into her things. When we did speak, it was the small talk of people who were once close but had since become little more than strangers.

She came back into my life suddenly when my father got sick that winter. It came on quickly, the fever that made him complain constantly of chills. Ruthie had always liked my father and tried to help. She did what she could, but the fever took him five days later. With my mother already long dead, the bakery passed solely into my possession.

I didn't have much free time after that. I quickly realized how much went into running the store that my father had not fully taught me, despite his best efforts. I tried to keep my head above water, but I was starting to founder. I needed help and was not too proud to admit it. But while pride may not have limited my options, money did.

Marcy Yates felt like my saving grace when she offered to help me figure things out. She was the youngest of the district cobblers' four children and had somehow had managed to learn more of bookkeeping and frugality than I ever had. When she suggested we go on a date, I agreed. She was intense and brash and the opposite of Ruthie, but I felt like I owed it to her.

The years that followed felt like a whirlwind, made up of events that spun out of control. It all started when Marcy got pregnant and came to me in a panic. Neither of us were ready for kids, but the prospect of being a father soon after my own father's death felt like a sign. She did not share my enthusiasm, but said if we were going to have a baby then we would need to get married. It seemed like the right thing to do, given the circumstances, even though our relationship was new and rocky.

After that the dominoes fell. The baby had just turned one when suddenly Marcy was pregnant again. We were tired, cranky, and broke. How much of that was normal for new parents I couldn't say, but I tried to keep it together for the boys. I wanted to spend more time with them, but I was the one who knew the tricks to baking. Marcy wanted time away from the boys, but we couldn't afford the help.

We started to break.

She tried to keep it from me, but I could often hear her losing her temper when I wasn't around. A few times, I caught her crying. Once, long after the boys were in bed and we should have been asleep, she had a bit of a meltdown. She told me that we had made a mistake. She wasn't suited to motherhood. We shouldn't have gotten married. She didn't like her life. She hated this damn district and everything in it. The next morning, she denied it all and we never spoke of it again, but it stuck with me.

In the back of my mind, there was a half-formed memory of Ruthie talking about women whose mental state was affected after they gave birth. But try as I might, I could not remember anything more specific. The thought of going to my first love, who seemed so happy despite living in the Seam on a miner's salary, and saying that my wife regretted me and our boys was too much. I kept it to myself and tried to forget.

Ruthie helped bring our third son into the world, even though she had a five-month-old at home her husband had to bring for her to feed over the course of the labour. When she went to give the squalling baby to his mother, Marcy just shook her head and said to give him to me. I was disappointed, but not surprised. She hadn't wanted to acknowledge the pregnancy until her stomach became impossible to ignore. Even then, the only time she had expressed excitement was at the possibility of a daughter. So, when my youngest son was placed in my arms, the chubbiest and baldest of the boys, I felt like it was my job to protect him.

"He's beautiful," Ruthie said, but I was hardly listening. I was entranced by this little being, so perfect with his rolls and wide eyes. Even after going through the moment twice before, I was still in awe that we had made such a perfect, tiny human.

"What do you want to name him, Marcy?" I asked. I'd fought to tear my eyes off him long enough to look at his mother.

Marcy's eyes never dropped from mine to look at the baby she had just brought into the world. "You can choose this time," she said. What I think she really meant was that she didn't care.

I named him Peeta, after my grandfather who had fought in the Dark Days against the Capitol. From what I remembered of him, he was everything I hoped my boys would be.

I'm sure it is a coincidence, but the more Peeta grew the more he reminded me of Granddad. When he finally got hair, it curled like my grandfather's. He was always laughing as a child, a deep hearty giggle that never failed to bring a smile to my face. He would toddle after his big brothers and try to do everything that they did, even though he was so much smaller than them. He would often fail to achieve his goals because of his size and lack of dexterity, but it never seemed to deter him. He would always get right back up and try again. If the older boys tried wrestling, he wanted to as well. When they started to read, he would take one of their books and tell himself stories based on the pictures in them.

He didn't seem fazed by the fact that his mother was harried or that she threw herself into work when he was toddling around. The older boys would come looking for attention more once their mother and I both focused on the store, but Peeta was content to amuse himself. He would draw in the dirt in the backyard and talk to the pigs when we were busy working and his brothers were at school, content to sit out in the sun. If other children came around, he was just as happy to go off playing with then. Maybe it was because he was the youngest or maybe it was just his nature, but he would follow the other children's leads. It made him a popular playmate.

When he was a bit older, maybe four or five, he began to show interest in helping with the bakery. Marcy seemed to think that he was getting in the way, but I didn't mind. What harm was there in teaching him about it all? He learned about measuring and counting while pouring and mixing, always eager to stand on a crate beside me and contribute. He was a natural too, the things he helped with always seemed to turn out despite the help - or lack thereof - from somebody so young. The things he made were never burnt, never failed to rise. I nicknamed him my little lucky charm, which never failed to get a chubby cheeked grin.

He really started to shine when he started to decorate. He loved looking at the cakes and talking about the colours. After his fascination with drawing in the dirt, I probably shouldn't have been surprised. I made him practice with the decorating tools before I let him touch a cake. He would concentrate so hard, little brows furrowed and tongue occasionally poking from the corner of his mouth, that I would try to supress a smile. He took it so seriously.

Marcy argued when I first let Peeta try his hand at the cakes, protesting that we would be losing money we could not afford to lose if they didn't turn out well. To try to appease her I made him start with a few cupcakes that were going to go into the display rather than the orders where design was specified. She protested at first until she saw what he managed to produce. After that, she didn't complain when I let him do the orders, as long as they weren't for peacekeepers.

By the time Peeta was nearing his tenth birthday, we had settled into a routine. I would focus on the baking while Marcy ran the storefront, managed orders, and accounted for money. We would talk as little as possible while the three boys were at school and try to put on a good face when they came home. We still would share a bed, even though we had hardly dared risk conceiving a child since Peeta had joined the family. When the boys had events, one of us - usually me - would go under the excuse that somebody had to stay home and manage the bakery.

Now that the boys were older, they would come home together and start helping with what needed to be done or get straight to schoolwork. I missed the conversations we would have when I would walk them to and from school when they were little, but I was willing to admit that they probably didn't want their father following them around now that they were so old. No need to embarrass them.

Marcy and I settled into our routine without speaking. When she went off to place the orders for the ingredients we would need from other districts, I got started on an order placed by one of the district's peacekeepers. He had ordered ten chocolate cupcakes with specific icing colouring. I thought they were going to cost him a ridiculous amount, even as the baker, but that just made it all the better.

I carefully mixed up the batter, able to do it from memory after so many years. I took extra care while separating the batter into cupcake tins, humming to myself as I heard Marcy come back and get settled in the front. I needed to act as though nothing was out of the ordinary, so while they were in the oven I got started on the special raisin and nut loaves.

She would come in the back occasionally, grabbing things that were fresh out of the oven or picking up extra boxes and bags that she needed for the customers who came in during the day. She paid no attention to the dozen chocolate cupcakes cooling while I mixed up the icing to decorate.

It was an intricate request, the kind that I would be hesitant to let Peeta do despite his skill. It was part - although only a small part, admittedly - of why I was getting it all done while he was at school. If they were ready to go by the time he came home, there wouldn't be any complaints that I wasn't letting him do something fun. Nor would there be any blame or suspicion thrown his way.

By the time the chiming of the bells over the door and the loud voices of my sons let me know that school was out, the peacekeeper's requested cupcakes were sitting in a blue and white box with a clear front window, perched safely on a glass shelf to await pickup.

"How was your day boys?" I asked, wiping flour off my hands onto my apron.

They all answered at once, trying to speak over each other. I listened, asking the appropriate questions and figuring out what had to be done before they went to bed, while Marcy ran the front. I watched as she sold the ten cupcakes to the peacekeeper out of the corner of my eye, pretending I noticed none of it. Evidently, he was pleased with my work, because he handed Marcy some money and left, box in hand.

Step one had gone off without a hitch.

Business picked up a bit as supper approached, as usual. People would flit in after work, see what was freshest, and bring it home to their families. I'd been betting on the busyness to distract my wife and as the minutes ticked on, I let myself breathe a sigh of relief. With the rush it took an hour, an hour and a half before Marcy noticed that there were two cupcakes in the display that matched the ones she had sent off with the peacekeeper.

Through clenched teeth, she hissed, "Why are there two extra cupcakes from the order you filled today?"

"I must have forgotten to check the page immediately before. I was convinced he wanted a dozen, not ten." I did my best to sound calm if slightly ashamed, the sort of reaction one would expect when your husband admitted to a potentially costly expense.

"You could not be that dumb," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. "Do you know how expensive chocolate has been this year? And sugar? I don't know what is going on in District 11 but the prices have been ridiculous."

"I see the invoices," I replied. Even knowing what she thought of me from years of arguments, I struggled to keep my cool. "If we sell them, the cost will be recuperated."

Her eyes, such a dark blue they appeared nearly black, flashed with anger. "You know the rate we sell those at. Two extras that need to be sold?" It was clear that she did not expect somebody to buy them.

That was okay. I didn't expect them to sell either. Despite what she thought, I was no idiot. My father had taught me to check and double check orders, then to check once more before starting to mix the ingredients. I had made mistakes before, but only on a few occasions. And I was certain that none of those mistakes involved cake around of my sons' birthdays.

That realization seemed to hit Marcy then. "You did this for Peeta. You put our livelihood at risk just to give -"

"I would not put our livelihood at risk for something trivial," I snapped back. It was a struggle to keep my voice low.

Maybe she sensed it was not a lie, because she did back off. It made me immensely thankful, because she was always more intense in arguments and rarely quit until her opponent cracked. I suppose the more than fifteen-year history we shared was enough to convince her of my integrity. Of course, that may have been simply due to our differences in opinion on how much of an impact two chocolate cupcakes would have on our financial stability.

When we closed up shop for the night, two red, orange, and yellow frosted cupcakes remained in the display case. Marcy glared at me and we went to bed without speaking. Admittedly, it seemed like a victory.

The next morning everybody partook in the usual fighting for space to get ready and hurried off to where they needed to be in a rush. There were a few extra hugs for Peeta before he left on his brothers' heels, but that was it. There was no time to do anything then. Not even if it was his tenth birthday.

By the time the boys came home from school that afternoon, we had sold slightly more than your average Thursday. It was enough to put their mother in a rare good mood, so much so that she gave them all hugs when they walked through the door. She seemed to be purposefully ignoring the two cupcakes that were still sitting out from the day before. I, on the other hand, found myself looking at them constantly. When they were still there at the end of the day, I was holding back a smile.

When Marcy flipped the sign on the door from "open" to "closed" and went back to working on the end of the day tasks, I carefully took the cupcakes out and placed them on a now-empty display tray. When I went upstairs, they came with me.

"Boys!" I called as I walked over to the kitchen table I'd used as a child. "There is something special for you!"

The three came running out of their shared bedroom, stomping and hollering. One by one their eyes landed on the cupcakes on the table and three sets of blue eyes widened. The older two quickly began talking over each other.

"Cupcakes!?"

"Just for Peeta because it's his birthday? No fair! We didn't get cake on my birthday!"

"Does Mom know you brought these up?"

"I want cake on my birthday next year!"

"Cupcakes!?"

Through it all, Peeta stood at the edge of the table without saying a word. He seemed surprised that not one but two special desserts had made their way to our kitchen. On his birthday, no less.

After raising a hand to shush his brothers, I asked, "What do you think Peeta?"

He finally looked up. His eyes, unlike the other two, were the same shade of blue as mine. "They look like the sunset."

"They do," I replied with a smile. "Now what do you think about dividing them up?"

They didn't have to be told twice. By the time Marcy came up a few minutes later, all three boys had chocolate crumbs in front of them and icing-coloured tongues. She looked at them then at me without a word. It was better than I had hoped for, if I was completely honest.

I extended a quarter of a cupcake, the same as the one I was holding, to her as a peace offering. Even though I though she had over-reacted for a one-time treat, they were still ingredients that were coming out of our stores that we wouldn't sell.

After the slightest hesitation, she took it from me and smiled. "Happy birthday, Peeta," she said, lifting it towards our youngest as a toast. I don't know who was most surprised.


End file.
